


Old Stones

by Brushfire



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-30
Updated: 2015-12-30
Packaged: 2018-05-10 07:44:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5577136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brushfire/pseuds/Brushfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And Mizael laughed with her, feeling simultaneously as vulnerable as a newborn and as old as the hills themselves.</p><p>Character fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Old Stones

**Author's Note:**

> Reposted from a now-defunct Tumblr account. Originally part of a series intended to expand upon the Barian's pasts - I'm unsure if I'll do the rest.
> 
> Also, floods, droughts, same difference. Pin it on the fluidity of oral history.

The restlessness hit Mizael in the late days of autumn, when the city was cloaked in a mist that seemed to belong to a landscape far different from the Heartland skyline. He tried to ignore it, reminding himself of the responsibilities he held here that he had to care for. He didn't have the time for the journey, he told himself. Instead, Mizael focused on his schooling and caring for Haruto when Kaito was too busy in the lab, hoping that the restlessness growing in his heart would disappear in time. But Kaito had always seemed to know what Mizael was feeling or thinking, and it wasn’t long before Kaito asked him if something was wrong, which Mizael promptly denied. Eventually it got to a point where Kaito stopped him in the middle of cleaning and, after informing him that he had cleaned that same spot five times, pressed some money into his hand and told him to go do whatever it was he needed to do.

"We'll be fine," he had told Mizael. "This is obviously something you need to do. So go."

Mizael caved faster than he'd like to admit and, with a quick call to the school to inform them of his absence, made preparations to leave. The day of his departure, Haruto was waiting for him in the kitchen with a thermos of hot chocolate. Mizael kneeled and pulled the boy into a hug, releasing him only after Haruto promised to be good while he was gone. Smiling, he ruffled Haruto's hair as he stood. Haruto followed him as he made his way to the door,  where Kaito waited, arms crossed and shoulder leaning against the frame.  He didn't say anything, just silently taking Mizael's hand in his own. He held it firmly for a moment before letting go and moving out of Mizael's way. They watched as he left, Haruto waving goodbye. The city was quiet as Mizael walked through the mist, following the tug at his heart down to the city's seawall. Ships and boats crowded the docks, rocking in the rare quiet the early morning offered. Mizael stowed away on a ship bound for his destination , curled behind crates containing heavy machinery that were to be traded for the exotic goods of his homeland. He sipped the hot chocolate Haruto had given him as he watched the waves pass through the small porthole window. 

It took a little over a week for the ship to reach the mainland, and by that time Mizael had gotten sick of hiding and sick of the sea. The boat docked at an unfamiliar city with a familiar name. People crowded the streets, the air thick with smoke. The language, he found, had indeed changed from the one he remembered, but enough words had stayed the same that he was able to understand some of what the locals told him. Or so he thought, until his asking for directions led him to a small store and face to face with a dictionary designed for tourists. He sighed and ran his finger along the spine of the book. The shop was hot and humid, the ceiling fan spinning lazily doing nothing to dispel the heat. He glared at it, willing it to rotate faster. The ceiling fan ignored his silent demand and continued on spinning in slow circles, squeaking as it turned. He irately snatched the dictionary from the shelf, earning himself a dirty look from the shopkeeper who reclined behind the counter. The pages of the dictionary wilted in the humidity, and Mizael wondered vaguely if the ink would start running as well. He flipped through the damp pages, finding a section of phrases commonly used by travelers. It irked him that he even needed this; here he was, having to use a dictionary designed for tourists to look up a language in his mother tongue. Then again, it's not as though buses existed eight hundred years ago.

“Where is the bus station?” → “哪里是公交车站?” The phrase was written in large, bold letters, obviously meant to aid the user in reading the characters more easily. Mizael couldn’t help but feeling as though it was mocking him for his lack of knowledge. He scowled at the book and shut it, placing it back on the shelf with more care than he picked it up with. The last thing he needed was for the shopkeep to throw him out. He went to leave the shop when he heard the shopkeep yell after him. Glancing over his shoulder, he immediately threw up his arms to avoid getting hit by the same book he was just reading. Holding the book in his hand, he looked at the man, confused.

“你可以拥有它. 只是尽量不要让自己被杀,” the shopkeep said, gesturing to the dictionary. Mizael stood for a moment, trying to process exactly what the shopkeep meant. Did he want Mizael to buy the book, or… The man chuckled at his confusion. “For free,” he added. Mizael thanked him, somewhat embarrassed by the man's act of charity. He bowed out of the shop and into the crowded street, flipping through the book as he wove between cars and pedestrians alike.

The book made navigating the city easier, and he found his way to a bus station within an hour. As he purchased his ticket, and  looked over to see the bus he needed begin to drive away. He snatched his ticket, hastily tossing coins on the counter as he ran to catch the bus, thankful when the driver slowed and opened the door. The bus was old, exterior rusted and the fabric seats worn and full of holes. Mizael handed the driver the ticket wearily. Aside from him, it was completely devoid of passengers. The bus lurched, knocking Mizael off balance, and he tumbled forward, falling into the nearest seat. Mizael groaned, rubbing his shoulder where it had hit the metal window frame. He was sure that would leave a lovely rose-colored bruise later.

The frame creaked as the bus travelled down the road, seeming to threaten to fall apart. Mizael absently watched the city fade away into the countryside, his bag laying on the seat beside him. He wondered how things were going at home. They were probably eating by now, the simple, subtly over-salted food that Kaito made. That, or someone convinced had Chris to cook and they were feasting on the resulting charcoal. Mizael chuckled at the thought, then cringed, suddenly concerned for Haruto's well being, being left under the care of three absent minded scientists. Maybe he shouldn't have left.

"They survived long enough without your care. Kaito is fully capable of taking care of Haruto while you aren't around to keep an eye on him. They'll be fine." Mizael didn't have to look to know that Jinlon had appeared beside him, sitting cross legged atop of Mizael's bag, his spirit taking on the human guise he had been granted with his death. Mizael glanced at the bus driver, who either didn't notice his new passenger or simply didn't care. Mizael sighed and drew his knees to his chest, wrapping his arms around his shins.

"I know, but I still worry," he said.

"You shouldn't worry so much, its a bad habit. You'll give yourself grey hairs, and then you'll look like as old as me."

Mizael shoved his shoulder playfully, Jinlon chuckling at his own humor. An easy silence settled through the bus, broken only by the creaking of the wheels and the occasional shuffling of Mizael readjusting in his seat. Mizael stared out the window absently, watching as the countryside passed by steadily. Jinlon began to hum gently, a tune that Mizael recognized from his childhood but couldn't remember the words to. As the sun slid beneath the horizon, Mizael felt himself begin to nod off, temple pressed to the cool glass of the window.

The shrieking of the brakes roused him from his slumber. He blinked blearily in the early morning light, his neck and shoulders protesting from being held in an awkward position for so long. Jinlon had disappeared sometime in the night, leaving Mizael alone on the bus again.

The bus driver peered into the mirror, scrutinizing Mizael’s disheveled appearance. "最后一站，你就必须下车," he said. _ Last stop, you need to get off _ . 

Mizael stood and stretched, slinging his pack over his shoulder. He thanked the driver and stepped off the bus into the cold morning of the mountains. The driver replied with a curt nod, and the door slid shut. The bus rolled away, the roar of the engine fading, leaving Mizael alone in the silence.

The landscape wasn’t much different than he remembered it, once he escaped the choking smoke of the city the ship had docked at. The hills stood tall as they did long ago, the winds that blew through the rocks almost sounding like a song. He stood still for a moment, letting the song of the hills and wind lull his mind into a state of calm. Here, the air was cold, clean of the claustrophobia and pollution of the cities. He hadn’t realized how much the cluster of urban life had been eating away at him until he left. He almost didn’t want to go back.

“Oh, hello there.” A voice snapped him from his reverie, and he opened his eyes to see a short woman standing beside him. Her greyed hair was pulled back from her face, tied high in a tight bun, her gnarled hands folded neatly over a cane. There was a twinkle in her dark eyes. Mizael realized with a start that she had greeted him on his old tongue, the language that he thought was lost long ago. “It’s not often that I get visitors. Come along,” she said, turning around and briskly walking away from the bus stop. 

Stumped, Mizael found himself following the strange old woman, walking in silence through the land, the sound of the old woman’s cane on the rocks and the wind surrounding them. In the distance, Mizael saw a small hut, smoke rising from a chimney. The woman made straight for the door, disappearing into the dark interior.  Mizael paused on the threshold, unsure.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Come in,” he heard her say. Tentatively, he entered the hut. The interior was dark and warm, the fire of the hearth casting shadows that danced along the walls. The air smelled of the musk of herbal medicine and burning wood. 

“Come, sit,” the old woman said, gesturing with her cane. Mizael sat across the fire from her, crossing his legs, back straight and stiff. He was still unsure of who this woman was, or what she wanted. But experience told him that an old crone was not much of a threat to a warrior like him. The mischief in the woman’s eyes was accompanied by a wisdom that told Mizael that there was purpose to this. So he settled into his position, waiting for the woman to speak.

“Would you like anything?” she asked.

“Water is all I need,” he responded automatically. He bit his lip, brow furrowed as he realized the familiarity of the phrase. It had been a long time since he had last said that. The woman grinned at his words, looking as though she had just gotten the answer she was seeking. It only heightened his unease.

"Well, I fancy tea, so you will have to make do with that." She paused briefly, glancing at him before turning to the fire. "So tell me, why are you here?" she asked, prodding at the fire with her cane. 

"I... got lost I suppose," he replied, hesitant.

She paused, cane resting in the embers as she turned to look at him. "Lost?"

"Yes. I was looking for something, but I'm not sure where it is. Or what it is, really," he replied. The woman gave him a long look, seemingly searching for something in his expression. She removed her cane and moved away from the fire. Mizael wondered how it was that the wood of her cane wasn't even the slightest bit blackened. The old woman hummed absently, shuffling about the house as she gathered things for her tea. Mizael recognized the herbs she used, the blend similar to one Jinlon used to brew.

"You know, long ago, there used to be a village on these grounds. It isn't here anymore, but in its time the village used to be prosperous. Perhaps that's what you were looking for?" she asked. The question was sudden, catching Mizael off guard.

"I didn't know there was anything here," he lied, shifting.

"Yes I'm sure you are here by coincidence. Such things happen," the old woman said, grinding the herbs slowly. The fire cast her shadow along the wall, looming and larger than life. Mizael watched the shadow move as she worked. "As I was saying, the village used to be prosperous, when it still stood here. The people of the village were happy folk, for they had a guardian who watched over them. They called this man their hero, and they lived under the care of the hero and the dragon of these lands, whom the hero travelled with.”

Mizael stared at the woman, who continued to work rather than meet his gaze. Perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised by the tale the woman began to tell, shouldn’t be surprised that anyone even  _ remembered _ . But with the time that had passed, he hadn't expected for anyone to know the story. A testament to the longevity of oral tradition, he supposed. Still, this was far more than he expected to find when returning here. He exhaled and shifted into a more comfortable position, prepared to listen to the tale of his past life retold once more.

“The hero and the dragon of the land protected the people from all that could threaten them. The people were grateful for all that the hero did for them. To show their gratitude, the people offered him the finest gifts of silk, spice, their daughters for brides. He refused each in turn, asking only for a flask of water to take with him for the journey back. Then he would leave as quickly as he came, disappearing into the midst of the mountains, returning to the dragon of the land. The people never knew when they would next see the hero. Sometimes he would appear in a month, sometimes it would be years before they saw him again. He appeared only when the village was troubled, only when the people needed him. Each time he would decline the gifts the people offered, taking with him only a flask of water. They say he lived in the hills along with the dragon, watching over the village. Some said he was a dragon himself, taking on the form of a man to avoid the people fearing him."

The woman paused, staring into the fire. The smoke was aromatic, a scent Mizael was familiar with but couldn't put a name to. She prodded the fire with her cane once more, sending sparks flying into the night. She sighed, and continued her tale.

"One year, a travelling shaman appeared in the village. This year was a hard one for the people, with the skies denying them the rains that would let them grow their crops. The people welcomed the shaman, thinking that he had come in their time of need to offer wisdom as the hero offered them protection. The man seemed very interested in the tale of the hero. The people were proud of their protector, and told the shaman of all the great deeds the hero did on behalf of the people of the village. When the shaman heard of the gifts the people had offered the hero that he had refused, the shaman proclaimed the people to be fools. He told them that the hero had cursed the village, stealing the rains and the water from the people of the village. The hero was no human - he was a demon, sent as a servant of the dragon to make the people of the village suffer. Why else would he refuse their gifts of silk and spices? Why else would he not want one of their beautiful daughters for a bride?"

"The people, tired and desperate, believed the shaman. When the hero came to their village again, he was met with rage and violence. The people rose against him, ignoring his pleas and his words in their anger. In desperation, the hero held a sword to his own throat, asking if the villagers would believe him if he were to take his own life. The people's anger wavered, their old faith in the hero stronger than their new seeded hatred. But by then it was too late. The shaman had tricked the people, turning them against their own protector and using the chaos and confusion to lead a neighboring army in to attack the village. The hero and the dragon fought to protect the people of the village but fell to the army's forces. The village was left in a state of ruin, their men dead, their daughters taken for brides, their crops raised, the silks and spices once offered as gifts now stolen. The remaining villagers wept for their loss and for that of the hero."

The woman gave Mizael a long look. Mizael blinked, and realized his eyes were stinging. Raising his fingers to his cheek, he felt them wet with tears. "I'm sorry, I —”

"The people of the village passed down this tale for generations," she interrupted, speaking slowly and steadily, "in hopes that someday we would meet the hero again. So that we, the people of the village, could tell him we are sorry for ever losing faith in him."

She stared straight into Mizael's eyes and Mizael felt his heart shudder as he realized that the woman had known whom she had been talking to the entire time. A sob rose to his throat and he covered his mouth to suppress the sound.  He curled in on himself, eyes squeezed tight. The weight he hadn't realized he was carrying was suddenly lifted from his shoulders, and he couldn't be sure if he was crying for sorrow, for happiness, for relief. Perhaps it was some of each. Distantly, he heard the old woman shift, and he looked up to find her crouched in front of him.

"Give me your hand, hero," She said. He offered his hand, and she took it in her own, her hands rough and leathered from toil. In her other hand she held a beaded talisman, the glass glowing in brightly in the firelight. The woman slipped the trinket onto his wrist. The glass was warm against his skin, and seemed to hum from some power. "This talisman was made for you long ago. It will protect you as you once protected us."

The woman stood, drawing Mizael up with her, holding both of his hands in hers. She reached up to wipe the tears from his cheeks and smiled, dark eyes crinkling at the corners. 

"I — " his voice caught in his throat, his mind scrambling for the right words. He swallowed. "Thank you."

The old woman smiled again, removing her hands from his cheeks and placing them on her hips. "Well, hero, what will you do now? There's no village here for you to protect."

"No, but..." he shook his head. "I have a home to go back to. A family. Well they're not really my family, but they're close enough."

"So even in this life, you protect. I suppose old habits do die hard, do they not?" She chuckled and Mizael laughed with her, feeling simultaneously as vulnerable as a newborn and as old as the hills themselves.


End file.
